


Water Song

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [96]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8335513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Multiverse, Any, trapped and the water is rising" and the 2016 Shoobie Monster Fest.John Sheppard and his team track what they think is a siren in Lake Michigan. It starts with Chicago deep dish pizza and goes downhill from there.





	

All growing up, John had heard about things like Chicago deep dish pizza and Tex-Mex and Texas BBQ and southern grits, but he’d never had the pleasure of eating them. Between the Sheppard family’s staff chef and being posted all over the world, John had thought he’d had the best cuisine the world had to offer, but most of it was high-brow or international. He’d never had the best of Americana. Sitting elbow-to-elbow with the rest of the team at a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint and taking his first bite of the famed Chicago deep dish pizza, John knew he had a whole world of food to explore.

“Can you make this?” he asked Lorne. “Because if you can make this, I will marry you tomorrow, regs be damned.”

Lorne chuckled. “Yes, I can make this, but unfortunately, I am already spoken for.”

“By who?” Dean asked.

Lorne said, loftily, “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“As an officer in a branch of the United States Armed Forces, I can tell you, with all sincerity, that the whole _officer and a gentleman_ thing is bullshit.” Dean reached for his beer, took a swallow.

Rodney arched an eyebrow. “Major Sheppard, given your marital history, one would think you’d be disinclined to rush into the unholy state of matrimony again.”

“You were married once?” Sam asked.

Ever since that whole vampire event, Rodney had been especially spiky toward John.

“Happens to the best of us,” Vala said airily.

“Running a sweetheart scam isn’t the same thing as being married.” Dean eyed her.

Vala shrugged. “Close enough.”

“Anyway,” Dean said, “this is the best pizza joint in the city. Sam and I found it the last time we were here on a hunt.”

Miko raised her eyebrows. “You’ve hunted here before?”

“Once we were in high school,” Dean said, “Dad stopped us hunting full time, but we’d hunt every summer. Hunted a werewolf, actually. She took a real shine to Sammy. Lady-killer even back then, right?” He nudged Sam.

Sam usually blushed whenever Dean ribbed him about women, but instead his expression went politely blank.

“How did that go?” Vala asked.

Sam cleared his throat. “Madison didn’t like being a werewolf, didn’t even realize she was one, had killed a bunch of people. But she wasn’t strong enough to take her own life, so she asked me to help her.”

“Madison?” Rodney asked.

Sam nodded.

“I have a niece named Madison.” Rodney finished his slice of pizza and wiped the grease off his fingers with one of the napkins that Miko had scattered around the table.

“I didn’t know you had siblings,” Vala said, cutting Rodney a sidelong look.

Lorne said nothing. Of course he knew. John wondered if Lorne knew about Dave, then remembered that Dave was listed as his next-of-kin on all his medical forms. Lorne had to know. But so far he’d said nothing.

Then Sam said, “Dean’s afraid of flying. It’s why we drive everywhere.”

“Driving’s cheaper,” Miko pointed out.

Lorne looked shocked. “What?”

Dean glared at Sam, but it was half-hearted. “Planes freak me out, all right?”’

Lorne shook his head. “That’s because you’ve never been able to fly one yourself.”

“No. If man was meant to fly, God would’ve -”

“Given us the Wright Brothers?” Lorne sat back, looked Dean up and down in disbelief. “You drive Baby like a bat out of hell, but you’re afraid of flying?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Dean protested. “Driving fast is - driving fast. Like riding a horse really fast. Or skateboarding. You like skateboarding, right, John?”

“I do,” John said. “But I also like flying.”

“Chopper’s not the same as a fighter jet,” Dean said.

It was John’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “I did go to Test Pilot School, you know. It’s on my jacket.”

Dean huffed. “When you go that fast -”

“You have to be in total, perfect control. It’s breathtaking. All that power, all yours.” Lorne sucked in a deep breath. “I miss it every day.”

John looked at Lorne. “You flew?”

“I started off flying C-130s, didn’t make it into Test Pilot School until your last year there,” Lorne said. “But the first time I got to go solo in an F-16 was -” He whistled.

Vala leaned closer to Lorne, looked him up and down. “You’re into S&M, aren’t you? You have control and power issues.”

And Lorne’s expression turned downright demure. “As I said, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“And this conversation took a rapid turn away from the professional,” Rodney said. “So, Captain Lorne -”

“Retired.”

“You said you had a line on a possible siren.”

Lorne straightened up, looked as prim and proper as ever before, utterly guileless and completely professional. “Yes. Case was called in with four dead in four months, always on the new moon. All drowned in Lake Michigan. All of their spouses or significant others reported that the victims claimed to have woken in the middle of the night and heard singing. The SO’s report that both parties went back to sleep, but when they woke up, the partner was gone. Bodies washed up within twenty-four hours. Death by drowning. No forced entry at any of the houses, no signs of defensive wounds, ligature marks, or other injury. No weights. Clean tox screens. No histories of mental illness, depression, or other suicidal ideation. Since the tip was called in, there has been one more death.”

He didn’t even have a data tablet in front of him. John said, “Are you a walking computer? How do you sleep at night, with all that in there?”

“Brilliance doesn’t come naturally to all of us, Major Sheppard,” Lorne said wryly. “In college and grad school and Test Pilot School, I learned to study really hard and remember things when I needed them. So I read the case files. As for how I sleep at night - what makes you think I actually sleep?”

And the bastard had the temerity to wink.

“All of the victims lived within walking distance of Lake Michigan.” Sam took up the briefing. “Although for some of them it would not have been an easy walk. Could have taken all night.”

“So there’s a siren camping out in Lake Michigan.” Rodney nodded. “Not too difficult. All we have to do is stake out the lake, nab her, and stab her.”

“And thanks to my diligence with my Cyprus connections, we shall all be appropriately armed.” Vala beamed. She nudged Lorne. “Also some lamb’s blood, to be safe.”

“To be safe,” Lorne agreed.

“What is it we need from Cyprus?” John asked.

“Stakes made from olive trees,” Sam said. “Sirens are Greek, so we use Greek mojo to deal with them. Lamb’s blood is usually what we use against djinn, but it’s proved useful against lots of creatures who deal in mind control, so there’s no harm in throwing it in. To be safe.”

“Do we need ear plugs?” John asked. “So we don’t listen to the song?”

“There’s a charm you can wear that will keep your head clear,” Lorne said. “Unless you want some extra ink.”

John had picked up ink in San Francisco to ward off demonic possession, the very smallest he could get, low on his left hip where no one could see as long as he was wearing underwear.

“What does it look like?” Sam asked.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “You want more ink?”

“You don’t?”

Dean patted himself on the chest. “Don’t like to mess with perfection.”

“We need to figure out how the siren is picking targets,” Rodney said. “Run deep backgrounds on all of them. Then we can run a scan on who lives in the target hunting ground and figure out which part of the shoreline to stake out.”

“Lake Michigan’s pretty big,” John said. “Are there any cases from anywhere else outside of Chicago?”

“No one reported them to me,” Lorne said, “but I can widen the net and sweep.”

Rodney nodded. “Do that.”

Their server, a bright, pink-haired girl with an English accent whose nametag read _Mae_ , reappeared. “How’s it going?”

“Pizza’s delicious,” John said, smiling at her.

She blushed, inexplicably, cleared her throat. “Excellent. Got room for dessert?”

“No,” Rodney said firmly. “We have work to do.”

Dean, Vala, and Miko pouted, but Mae nodded and set the check down on the table. Rodney paid with the company card, and they trooped out to the bus.

Sam, Dean, and Miko immediately set to on their laptops while Lorne dug up anti-siren charms and Vala prepped the anti-siren stakes.

John and Rodney drove the bus down to the lake shore.

“Are you mad at me?” John asked.

Rodney eyed him. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“Ever since that whole thing with you being turned into a vampire, you’ve been -”

“I was a vampire. It was an uncomfortable experience. I’m dealing with it,” Rodney said.

“That’s fair,” John conceded. He hated talking about feelings, but he’d learned that there had to be at least a brief bloodletting after a toxic event. It was how he and his fellow soldiers dealt after they lost a team member or something terrible happened. A twenty-four hour pass to talk it out, get drunk, do whatever, and then move on. If a man or woman needed more help, then there was the base psych for that. “But -”

“Why didn’t you smell like a regular human?” Rodney asked. “When I was a vampire.”

“Apparently none of us do, perhaps with the exception of Miko,” John said.

“Dean is a potential vessel for an archangel. Sam is a potential vessel for a fallen archangel. Vala was possessed by a demon for millennia. Lorne has used his body and soul to perform a lot of magic in the line of service and otherwise. Miko is an excellent physicist and computer engineer and before this job had no encounter with the supernatural. What about you?”

“I have the Sight. Maybe that affects how I smell.”

“Maybe,” Rodney said flatly.

John glanced at Rodney. “You don’t seem to care that your team members are more super than natural.”

“We’re a team.”

“No one’s ever complained about how I smell before,” John said.

“Whatever. I’m not mad at you. Now, let’s go interview the latest victim’s SO.” Rodney parked the bus and headed into the back to change into his Fed suit.

John had just finished tying his tie when someone rapped on the bathroom door.

“Good and bad news,” Dean said.

“How so?” John pulled open the door.

“There are cases originating in other states, so you going in as Feds is totally legit.” Dean grinned and handed John his FBI credentials, which had been updated to include the new agent serial numbers and featured the name _John McKay_ , because apparently Dean was observant and also an immature jerk.

John raised his eyebrows at the credentials, but Dean just smiled innocently. “I can see how that would be good and bad news,” John said. “Anything else we need to know?”

“Rodney’s in the sedan and waiting for you.” Dean clapped John on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

John went and toed on his black loafers, which Lorne must have gotten to and polished when John wasn’t looking. “Why good luck?”

Dean just smiled enigmatically and shoved John for the door. John managed to catch his balance after tumbling ungracefully down the steps, and he scowled at Dean. He started for the sedan, which was idling behind the bus, exhaust steaming into the winter air, and Lorne came bounding off the bus. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and John was cursing his cheap suit, because Chicago was the Windy City for a reason, and the gusting weather was cutting him to the bone, but Lorne didn’t look at all cold.

“Take this,” Lorne said. He held out what looked like a tie pin.

“What is it?” But John accepted it, tacked it to his tie. It looked like some kind of complicated celtic knot that might or might not have been part swastika.

“Anti-siren charm. Rodney already has one.” Lorne turned and trotted back onto the bus.

“Thanks,” John called after him, and climbed into the car. He’d barely buckled himself in when Rodney peeled away from the pavement.

“What I want to know,” John said, “is how none of these victims froze to death on their way down to the lake.”

“I’m sure we’ll find out.” Rodney didn’t look at him.

 

*

“What do you want?” The woman who answered the door had smooth dark skin, wide eyes, and dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

John held up his badge. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m Agent John McKay, FBI.”

Rodney shot him a look, but then he unfolded his credentials, glanced at them, and said, “Rodney Sheppard, FBI.”

Dusty Mehra, ex-Marine, had just lost her partner, Alicia Vega, to the Siren of Lake Michigan. “What does the FBI want?”

“It’s about Alicia Vega,” John said.

Dusty narrowed her eyes. “I already spoke to the police about Alicia. Why does the FBI care about a local drowning?”

“Not just local, ma’am. Similar cases have occurred around other parts of the lake in other states.” John kept his voice calm and even, didn’t dare look at Rodney.

“She drowned. It was an accident. Wasn’t it?”

“We hope so,” Rodney said, and surprisingly, he sounded calm and polite, almost soothing. “We just want to make sure.”

“I don’t know what else I can tell you that I haven’t already told Chicago PD.” Dusty bit her lip. “But c’mon in. I’ve got coffee on.”

Dusty and Alicia’s apartment was small, compact, not particularly fancy, but clean and well-organized. John could see the remnants of Dusty and Alicia’s military training in how things were arranged. Dusty stepped into the kitchen, returned with three mugs of coffee.

Rodney accepted his and took a sip, trusting soul. John accepted his mug but didn’t sip any.

John glanced at Rodney, who gestured with his mug for John to go first, so John led the interview for the first time ever. He covered the usual police questions - had Alicia been acting odd before she disappeared? Any enemies? Had anyone unusual been hanging around the apartment or where they worked? Any threats?

Dusty reported that Alicia had acted pretty normal, if distracted, but she had seasonal affective disorder and the cold got to her fast. No enemies - all those had been left behind in Iraq. Neither of them had spotted anyone unusual at work or at home, and both of them were on the neighborhood watch in their apartment building. No threats that Dusty knew about. She’d given Chicago PD access to Alicia’s computer to check if there was anything Alicia had received by email, but Alicia and Dusty told each other everything. They’d gone to high school together, and then Dusty had hitched on with the Marines and Alicia had gone Air Force, and they’d reunited after they both separated from service.

John took a deep breath, then started in on the line of questions that cops never thought to pursue.

“Did Alicia report any...headaches or nightmares or strange dreams?”

Dusty frowned at him. “What? Why?”

John floundered.

Rodney said, smoothly, “Some of the other victims reported auditory hallucinations right before they disappeared and then turned up drowned. We’re looking into some kind of drug-assisted post-hypnotic suggestion that possibly lured them from their beds.”

John hoped one day he’d be as good at making up scientific-sounding bullshit on the spot. Granted, Rodney was a scientist and John was a soldier, but still - John wasn’t stupid. He bet Dean was pretty good at making things up on the spot, too. Or Sam.

Dusty took a deep breath. “You might think I’m crazy - Alicia thought she was going crazy, thought her disorder had turned into something...worse. But she said she heard singing.”

John and Rodney exchanged looks. Siren it was.

“Not just singing, though.”

John raised his eyebrows. “What else?”

“Horse hooves,” Dusty said. “Alicia swore she could hear horses.”

Rodney’s expression was grim. “Thank you.”

John fired up his datapad. Miko had sent him pictures of all the previous victims. “Could you look at some pictures? Tell me if you recognize any of these people.”

Deep background checks would take a very long time, especially since the victim pool had widened considerably, but there had to be a connection, a way that the monster was choosing its victims. But Dusty didn’t recognize any of the other victims by face or name.

John and Rodney thanked her for the coffee and her time and then stepped back out onto the icy street. John fired up the car and drove back to the bus while Rodney got onto the phone.

“Houston, we have a problem. I don’t think it’s a siren. No, latest vic’s SO reported the vic was hearing horses as well. Yes. A kelpie. Lorne, can you get some horse tack? Yes, horse tack, in the dead of winter, in Chicago. Of course you know a guy. Hop to it.”

Back on the bus, Rodney stripped out of his suit on the way back to the middle bunks. “Talk to me, people, what do we have on kelpies?”

“Kelpies are lake, river, or loch monsters originating from Scotland,” Sam said, reading from the Winchester Family hunting journal. “Can shapeshift into attractive men, rarely women, and drown people in bodies of water. Can be identified in human form from the water weeds in their hair.”

Rodney emerged from the middle bunks wearing khakis, combat boots, a hoodie, and gloves. “What about the singing? Why was everyone else reporting singing?”

“Maybe a siren and a kelpie teamed up?” Dean offered.

Miko shook her head. “No. There are tales of some kelpies luring people onto their backs by singing.”

“Did anyone else report horse sounds?” John asked, starting to un-knot his tie.

Rodney caught his wrist. “Stay dressed like that. Miko, go with him. Find out if anyone else reported horse sounds.”

Miko nodded. She was half-dressed like a Fed anyway.

“How do kelpies choose their victims?” John asked.

Vala frowned at her tablet. “Says they snatch whoever’s nearest to the body of water. Children, often, easy to lure. They would drown them and throw their entrails up on the shore. Humans are food, from the looks of it.”

“No entrails. All the corpses were intact,” Rodney said. “Obviously some of the lore is wrong. Sheppard, Miko, go. If you get at least five reports of horse sounds, come on back. Where’s Lorne?”

“Lorne went to see a guy about some horse tack,” Sam said.

Miko stood up, pulled on a suit jacket and then a heavier overcoat. “Let’s go,” she said to John. She added, “You drive.”

It took them well into the evening to interview about nine witnesses, all of whom were confused about why the FBI was involved, why an investigation was ongoing when the drownings were obviously accidental. But five of them reported, grudgingly, that their significant others had also heard horses in addition to singing.

John’s hands were almost numb - he had not prepared adequately for this cold business after being stationed in A-stan - by the time he parked the sedan back at the bus.

“So, verdict is a kelpie,” John said.

Miko eyed him. “Are you all right? You’re shivering.”

“I probably should track down a scarf and a pair of gloves,” John said.

“Ask Lorne. He probably has some.” Miko climbed out of the car and onto the bus.

Rodney, Sam, Dean, and Vala had created some kind of paper explosion in the front of the bus, pictures and paper tacked all over the microwave, the table, the couch, and the backs of several chairs.

“What have you got?” Rodney demanded.

“Confirmed, five reports of horse sounds,” Miko said.

“Hopefully Lorne gets back with that tack gear soon.” Sam’s expression was grim. “I think we’ve figured it out, though.”

“Figured what out?” John rubbed his hands together.

“How the kelpie is choosing victims.” Rodney eyed John. “Your hands are practically blue. You’d be useless in a fight. There’s a box under the couch. There should be a spare set of gloves and a scarf in there. Why didn’t you tell anyone you had none?”

“I didn’t realize we’d be driving into Antarctica,” John said. But he went and found the box. The gloves and scarf in the box were black, hand-knit, but well-made. Warm. John rolled up the scarf and pocketed it, but he pulled on the gloves. “So, how is the kelpie choosing victims?”

“Pretty simple, actually.” Dean tapped the list of victims. “All of them have Scottish heritage. And all of them are descendants of the same fourteen people.”

“The same fourteen Scottish people?” John asked.

“No.” Dean shook his head. He slanted a glance at Sam.

“The same fourteen original vessels of the Knights of Hell,” Sam said, his tone suspiciously casual.

“What does that even mean?” John glanced between Sam and Dean.

“Sit,” Vala said, gesturing to the couch, “and learn about the hierarchy of Hell.”

Lucifer, a fallen archangel. The Knights of Hell, fallen angels. The rest of the demons - human souls tortured into pure evil. Demons could ride anyone. Angels needed vessels from a specific bloodline. Sam and Dean were in that bloodline, but somehow Dean was slated for a regular archangel, and Sam was slated for the fallen one. The Knights of Hell also had their own specific vessel bloodlines.

“Scottish heritage, though?” Miko asked.

Rodney shrugged. “Some quirk of the magic, probably, since kelpies originated in Scotland.”

“Our mother’s maiden name was Campbell,” Sam said.

Dean sang softly, _The Campbells are coming, hooray, hooray._

“We have bait, then,” Vala said slowly.

Sam swallowed hard, nodded. “Yeah.”

The door opened, and Lorne came stumbling up the steps, arms full of leather horseriding gear. John hadn’t ridden in years, but he recognized a saddle, stirrups, reins, a bit. Was it John’s imagination, or did Lorne have a smear of lipstick on his collar?

“All right! All we have to do is stamp all of the bits and pieces with crosses and wait for the kelpie to go on a night ride and - why is everyone looking at me like I kicked a puppy?”

“Sam’s the bait,” Dean said flatly.

“Been a while,” Lorne said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to make up some kind of rotation? So it’s fair.”

“It has to be Sam,” Rodney said, “for lore reasons. Get that tack ready, and then we’ll go catch a kelpie.”

Lorne stared at the papers spread across every available surface. Then he turned and headed for the back bunk, where there was still room to work.

“Lorne,” Vala called after him, “you have something on your collar.”

“It’ll come off in the wash,” Lorne said. He hollered over his shoulder, “John, can you bring my toolbox? I need my leather stamps.”

Of course Lorne had leather stamps. John had to do some digging around the passenger seat where Lorne often slept, and he found what looked like a cross between a fishing tackle box and a sewing basket. Sam and Dean had a low, hissed argument. Miko, Vala, and Rodney attempted to wade in, and John made a beeline for Lorne.

“Here you go.” He held out the box.

“Thanks,” Lorne said, and froze. “Where did you get those gloves?”

“Rodney noticed my hands were turning blue and told me where to find them. Are they yours?” John winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to steal them. Let me guess, you made them?” It would explain the hand-knitted afghan, too.

“No,” Lorne said quietly. His expression was unreadable, stark. “Glad they’re keeping you warm. You know horse tack, right?”

“I did some riding as a kid, yes,” John said.

Lorne flipped open the toolbox, adjusted multiple trays, and came up with a sponge, a wooden mallet, and what looked like a miniature cattle brand. “We need to get crosses on pretty much every single moving part. I probably have a second punch you can use. Pretty simple process - moisten the leather, punch in the cross, move on. Can you get me some water? From the bathroom is fine, if Dean is still being overbearing at Sam.”

John peeked out of the back bunk. Sam and Dean were sitting on the couch amidst the flurry of paper, Rodney, Miko, and Vala standing over them, waving their hands and talking over each other. So John ducked into the bathroom, grabbed a little paper cup, filled it with water, and carried it back to Lorne. Lorne had turned up another cross-shaped punch, and he and John set to work.

“When I was a kid,” John said, “I used to mend my own tack. There were stablehands and ostlers at the stable where we housed my horse, but I liked doing it. It was relaxing.”

“So you can do macrame?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” John chuckled. “Been a long time since I rode.”

“And then you picked up flying.”

“And then I learned to fly.” John smiled. “What about you? You much into horse riding? You found the tack pretty fast.”

There was definitely a smudge of lipstick on Lorne’s collar.

“No, not my thing. Grew up in California, remember?”

“There are horses in California.”

“Surfing is more my thing.” Lorne worked quickly and efficiently, wielded the hammer and punch like he’d done it many times before. John thought of Lorne’s fancy leather-bound journal, with the tooling along the spine and edges of the cover. Maybe Lorne had done it many times before.

“So are the rest of us immune to the kelpie’s song, then?” John asked. He glanced down at his anti-siren tie pin.

“Do you have any Scottish ancestry?” Lorne asked.

“Maybe. Not sure. That kind of thing was never a passion of mine.”

“Let me know if you hear the singing, then. I’ll make sure you stay put.”

“Will it involve leather?” John raised his eyebrows.

Lorne grinned. “Only if you want it to.”

There was a crash as the bus door banged open.

“Sammy, no!” Dean shouted.

There was a crunch of snow underfoot.

John was on his feet, rushing for the door. He nearly collided with Rodney and Vala. They all spilled onto the street. Sam was shambling down the sidewalk like a sleepwalker, Dean on his heels.

“Lorne,” John shouted, “we need that tack, and we need it stat!”

Lorne came skittering out of the bus, tack over one shoulder, saddle under one arm. John grabbed the saddle from him, and they took off after Dean.

“Sammy, snap out of it,” Dean said.

“Can you hear her?” Sam’s eyes were glazed over, distant.

“Hear what?” Rodney asked. He was carrying an instrument in one hand and a gun in the other.

Sam began to hum, a warbling version of _Hey Jude_.

Dean’s footsteps faltered. “Mom?”

Tears slipped down Sam’s face. “I thought I’d forgotten her voice, but she sang to me. And to you, when we were sick.”

“Lorne,” Vala shouted.

Lorne glanced at John, and they both sped up, caught up with Sam and Dean. John glanced at Lorne, and as one, they lunged. Lorne got the bridle over Sam’s head. John shoved the saddle at Sam’s back, and Sam faltered, stumbled.

“Dean? Why is it so cold?” Sam blinked and started shivering.

Dean immediately shrugged off his jacket and threw it over Sam’s shoulders, which was pointless, because Sam’s shoulders were much broader than his.

“Let’s get back to the bus,” Dean said. “C’mon, Sammy.”

“Why am I wearing a - what is this? John? What are you doing to my back?” Sam craned his neck to where John was still pressing the saddle to him.

“I think the bridle has it covered,” Lorne said, and John stepped back, tucked the saddle under his arm.

“Don’t take off the bridle,” Rodney said firmly. “It must be interfering with the kelpie’s magic.”

“I can rig up an anti-kelpie charm later,” Lorne said. “Let’s get back onto the bus and finish the anti-kelpie horse tack -”

Sam shook his head. “No. We have to catch the kelpie now, before it takes someone else. Give me the keys.” He shrugged off the bridle.

“What - no!” Dean tried to wrestle the bridle back onto him.

“I said give me the keys,” Sam snarled.

“That’s the kelpie magic talking,” Dean insisted.

Sam shrugged the bridle off and wrapped it around is forearm. “No, it’s not. It’s the soldier talking. It’s our job to protect people. Saving people, remember? Get into the car.”

Rodney called over his shoulder, “Vala, Miko, follow us in the bus!”

“What are we doing?” Dean asked.

“We’re going to follow the kelpie,” Sam said, “and end it before it ends someone else.” He climbed into the driver’s seat of the sedan. Dean scrambled into the passenger seat, leaving John, Rodney, and Lorne to climb into the back.

“Finish marking the tack,” Rodney ordered Lorne.

Lorne fished in his jacket, came up with a knife, and started carving the leather. John found his own knife and did the same, marking every different piece of the saddle.

“Do you see her?” Sam asked.

John lifted his head. Sam was pointing out the windshield and - there. A woman in a white dress, slender and delicate, walking barefoot but not quite on the snowy sidewalk. She had long dark hair twined with what looked like seaweed. She was beautiful.

“Sammy always did like them small, dark, and dangerous,” Dean murmured.

“Jessica was blonde.”

“Madison. Sarah. Ruby. Amelia -”

“I can hear her song,” Sam said softly. “But it’s - muted.”

Where the woman walked, John saw, she was leaving footprints on the snow. No, not footprints. Hoof prints. Backward hoof prints.

“Tack is ready,” Lorne said. “What now?”

“Go get that kelpie,” Dean said.

“Tack only works if the kelpie is in horse form, according to lore,” Rodney said.

John raised his eyebrows at Dean. “Do you want us to jump out of a moving car?”

“Stop the car, Sam.”

Sam slammed on the brakes. John and Lorne stumbled out of the car and lunged at the woman.

Only she was no longer a woman. She was a massive white mare with flame-red eyes and backwards hooves that looked razor sharp. She reared up and screamed. Lorne dove out of the way. John dove at the horse, slapped the saddle onto her back. She bucked.

For one moment, John saw black, black sky.

He hit the ground. Air rushed out of lungs. He saw stars.

“Dammit, it took off running.” Dean hauled John to his feet. Rodney was helping Lorne.

John and Lorne - and all their scuffed horse tack - were bundled back into the car. As soon as the doors were closed, Sam put the pedal to the metal.

“Be careful, Sammy,” Dean warned.

John could see the kelpie, racing along the shoreline, its hooves not touching the ground, though it left hoofprints in its wake. Rodney was on his bluetooth set to Miko and Vala, the bus rumbling behind them in the background. Sam drove like he was trying to recreate a car chase scene from a Bourne move, shaky camera work and all. John could pull multiple Gs in a fighter jet, but Sam’s driving made him want to be sick.

“Careful, Sammy,” Dean said again. They’d hit a stretch of the shoreline that was all beach, no houses, barely any buildings.

John winced at the thought of the sand in the undercarriage.

The kelpie was running too fast for either a human or a horse or even a carriage to catch, but the car was actually gaining on it.

“We’ve almost got it,” Rodney said. “Lorne, John, you ready?”

“Sammy, get right up beside it,” Dean said.

Lorne had worked the reins into some kind of lasso. “Ready when you are.”

Sam pushed the car harder, got out in front of the kelpie. It started to turn, but Sam swung the car around hard, stomped on the brakes once more. John and Lorne spilled out of the car for round two with the lasso and saddle.

Lorne managed to get the lasso over the kelpie’s head. It screamed and thrashed, steaming at the nostrils. John yelled and threw himself onto the kelpie’s back, saddle and all.

The kelpie bucked, threw John again. John managed to roll when he landed, get back on his seat. Lorne was dodging around the kelpie, avoiding its hooves.

Sam shouted, “Get out of the way!”

Lorne dove, rolled. John barely had time to get out of the way before the car slammed into the kelpie. Both kelpie and car splashed into the water.

“Rodney!” John staggered to his feet. He tugged off his jacket and gloves, started to kick off his shoes, but Lorne caught his wrist. He aimed a flashlight at the water, but the surface was unnaturally still.

And then - bubbles. “There!” Lorne said. He started to dial 911, but John shook his hand away.

“John, no, you’ll freeze.”

John slanted Lorne a sidelong look. “My mother once told me that mermaids are just water elves.” And he dove.

Hitting the water was like hitting a brick wall made of ice. John had no clue whether or not his being half-elf made him any tougher than a regular human. That didn’t matter. What mattered was saving Rodney and the others.

The beams from the car headlights cut through the murky water like sunbeams. John swam toward the car and saw - Sam. Dean. Rodney. Pounding on the glass, yanking at their seatbelts. John tried to yank open one of the doors, but it was stuck fast. He could see inside the car. The water was rising.

Sam and Dean made frantic waving motions. John peered at them, trying to understand. Teeth sank into his leg, yanked him backward. John screamed in agony. Water went up his nose and down his throat. He flailed. There was a loud sound, and then -

Hands closed around his arms. He was dragged up, up, up. He broke the surface with a splash. The air was another slap to the face. His limbs were numb.

“I got you,” Dean said. He grinned. “Marines. Swim training. Not something you flyboys get, huh?”

Rodney broke the surface next. John goggled at him, confused.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean demanded. “We were stuck in the car and we could have drowned, and you go and shoot out the windows so the car floods faster?”

“Basic physics, jarhead,” Rodney snapped. “The differing pressures on the inside and outside of the car made it impossible to open the doors. By letting the water in and the pressure equalize I made it easier for the door to open. Where’s Sam?”

“He was right behind me,” Dean said. He looked around wildly. “Sam? Sammy?” He let go of John and dove under.

John tried to tread water, but he couldn’t feel his limbs, except for a dull, distant ache in his leg. He started to sink.

“Damn Americans and their poor PE curriculum,” Rodney grumbled. In a few quick strokes he was at John’s side, dragged him back up to the surface. “You okay, Sheppard?”

“I think the kelpie bit me,” John mumbled. “You’re a good swimmer. Nice chest.”

“Nice chest?” Rodney echoed. “Are you sure the kelpie didn’t bite your brain?”

There was a splash as Dean broke the surface.

“Where’s Sam?” Rodney demanded, but there was another splash, and Sam broke the surface.

He dragged something with him. A horse’s head.

“I got it,” Sam said grimly. “We can send it back to HQ for analysis. Let’s go.”

The four of them paddled for shallow ground. John tried to put weight on his foot and almost collapsed. Rodney and Dean helped him hobble up to where Miko, Lorne, and Vala were waiting with blankets and towels.

“Strip,” Vala ordered.

Sam glared at her. “You liked that command way too much.”

“Hypothermia is a terrible affliction,” Vala said, saccharine sweet. “You’ll have to share body heat if you don’t want frostbite to set in.”

“That’s a blatant lie,” Rodney said, but his teeth were chattering, and he stripped out of his clothes obediently. “The kelpie bit John. Wound needs cleaned.”

“If we’re sharing body heat,” Dean said, “dibs on Miko.”

Miko squeaked. “Why me?”

“Because you’re like a human furnace,” Vala said easily. She smiled at Sam. “What do you say, Lieutenant? Want to cuddle with me?”

“I’ll take Lorne, thanks,” Sam said.

“Lorne is very warm,” Rodney conceded.

They all hobbled onto the bus. The warmth was like needles all over John’s body. He wanted to sleep, but before he could make it to one of the bunks, Rodney and Vala pushed him onto the couch. Miko arrived with a first aid kit, and she started cleaning the wound on John’s leg.

“At least you’re not missing any flesh,” Miko said.

John smiled thinly at her. “I’m glad.”

“Are your friends going to be ticked off that we lost their horse tack?” Dean asked Lorne.

Lorne smiled enigmatically. “My guy owed me a favor.”

“Get the kelpie head into a secure box,” Sam said.

“Why a secure box?” Rodney asked.

Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. “I can hear its song.”

“We’ll ward the box,” Lorne said.

Miko bandaged John’s calf, and then she instructed Lorne and Vala to settle John on the back bunk.

John tried to protest, but he was cold, and he was tired, and his leg hurt. So he closed his eyes and snuggled beneath the afghan Vala tucked around him. He was almost asleep when the bunk dipped beneath someone else’s weight, and then someone warm and nice-smelling was pressed up against him.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Rodney grumbled.

“Ideas beyond you disliking me?” John didn’t roll away from Rodney.

“You were insane, by the way,” Rodney continued. “Jumping into the freezing water like that. I had everything under control. First taking on a nest of vampires with you, the Winchesters, and a handful of grenades, then jumping into freezing water. Do you have a death wish, Sheppard? You took a malfunctioning chopper into hostile territory alone to rescue three friends. What do you live for?”

John knew it was the pain and the cold and the exhaustion talking, but he wanted to say _You_. He wanted to know what made Rodney tick, what made him smile, what made him laugh, what had made him choose to put his genius toward hunting the supernatural.

Sleep dragged him down before he could speak.

The next morning, when he woke, Vala was sprawled across the bed beside him, snoring like a malfunctioning can opener. John stumbled to his feet, wincing when he put weight on his bad leg, and headed for the kitchen. He could smell bacon and coffee. Lorne was driving, Dean was navigating. Sam and Miko were huddled at the kitchen table, inscribing sigils on a steel box. Rodney was sitting on the couch, staring out the window, listening to music and tapping at his thigh. When he saw John, though, he tugged his headphones off, let them rest around his neck, so John sat down beside him.

“Those gloves and scarf I gave you,” Rodney said quietly. “They were knitted by our previous Air Force major, Cameron Mitchell. He died during the hunt where we exorcised Qetesh from Vala. Lorne was - I think _sweet on him_ is the term the kids use these days.”

“Why did you give them to me, then?”

“No one was using them, and they’re warm. And - Miko might have had a chat with me about how insensitive that was.”

“I can give them back. Lorne saw them, but he didn’t say a thing.”

Rodney huffed. “He wouldn’t.”

“But I’ll still give them back.” Now John knew where the hand-knitted afghan had come from.

“You probably should.”

John eyed Rodney. “Why are you telling me this? About Lorne. I thought the unspoken rule was that we kept ourselves to ourselves and if someone wanted to tell something, that was up to them.”

Rodney said, “I’m telling you this because I’m not a sweet person, John Sheppard. Don’t get sweet on me.” And he pulled his headphones back on.

John stared at him for a long moment. Then he heaved himself to his feet and stumbled back to the bunk beside Vala. He closed his eyes and couldn’t sleep and listened to his mother sing him an elven lullaby.


End file.
